For a last meal it was hardly the stuff of legend. The old fella chipped a couple of spuds, threw them in the fryer and popped a chop under the grill, followed by a digestif of Barry’s tea and a smoke out the garden. I was lately back in the family home because me and
I don’t remember who first suggested it. I’d done some modelling when I finished school but that dried up pretty quickly. It was a Spanish brand and I never got to see the pictures, how I looked. Made a bit of cash, bought myself some wheels. Got a bit too big for my boots, Gary
Conor walked through the cramped service station, past the stacked newspapers and the beige and burnt hot food, beyond the rotating stand of birthday cards and the single brand of mouthwash and toothpaste. The ATM was at the very back, beside the drinks cooler. He sighed when it fired out a fifty-pound note. ‘Useless,’ he said – pausing at
Geovani Martins is a name that I’d not heard of before, but it is a name I shall always remember – with The Sun On My Head he announces himself to the masses with a collection that is dripping with relevant and important themes such as masculinity, corruption, poverty and resilience in the face of
Elani has grown up in violence. It surrounds her. It inhabits her father and lives on every face in her neighborhood. But Elani has learned a trick: watching people’s hands. If she carefully observes how someone carries a mug or a phone or a bottle, she can spot that subtle difference between holding and wielding.
